


maybe dyin, most definitely lyin

by foxkillskat



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dehydration, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mild Language, NO DEATH, No Sex, Nudity, Post-Time Skip, SakuAtsu, Sickfic, mentions of vomit, no beta we die like daichi, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28298106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxkillskat/pseuds/foxkillskat
Summary: ~~~“I’m dying.”“Yer what?”~~~Yer typical SakuAtsu sickfic with a little yackin’, an extra servin’ of drama, and a dollop of that sweet, sappy fluff to top it off.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 16
Kudos: 324





	maybe dyin, most definitely lyin

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey hey yall! its yer (least) fave redneck, foxkillskat, back at it again with another sakuatsu moment. have yall ever been extremely dehydrated?? its worse than death, i tell ya!! unfortunately for Omi, i decided to gift him with my cripplin fear of hospitals (dont be like us, kids). enjoy the mess!

“Open up, Omi-Omi. I know yer in there.”

Atsumu pounds on the door again, refusing to be ignored. It’s not like he wants to be here, hammering away at the apartment of the teammate who hates him the most. He definitely isn’t the one who suggested to their coach that someone should check up on him and make sure he’s alive. It’s not like he cares.

It’s not like Atsumu gives up, either.

“Ya can’t just skip practice and not answer yer phone and—”

The door swings open right as he’s about to strike again.

Sakusa doesn’t seem to register the fist mere centimeters from his chest — he’s too busy hanging on to the door frame for dear life, fingers trembling like a single one losing its grip will bring him crashing down.

“What the—” Atsumu’s voice catches in his throat. “What’s wrong with ya?”

Sakusa’s blink is so slow it could be mistaken for a power nap.

“I’m dying.”

“Yer what?” Atsumu yelps.

Sakusa is a dramatic person — Atsumu knows this too well. But, for once, it might be warranted. He looks exactly like something the cat dragged in with his sunken eyes and the little red veins peeking through his translucent skin. Not to mention his hair. His usually tamed curls run frizzy and wild, jutting out this way and that like they’ve never seen a comb in their got dang life.

Sakusa doesn’t wait for Atsumu to finish his assessment. He shuts his eyes and starts to slide down the door frame.

“Whoah!” Atsumu catches him by his underarms and, for the first time, Sakusa doesn’t flinch at his touch. He just hangs there, limp, while Atsumu fights gravity for the both of them.

“Help!” Atsumu yells to anyone, no one, and like all his most desperate cries in life, this one goes unanswered.

Still, he doesn’t give up.

“Omi-kun! Wake up!” Atsumu struggles with the awkward dead weight. “Sakusa!”

Sakusa’s head rolls back.

He has to do something.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Atsumu repeats his mantra as they go down. On the floor of the entryway, he pushes Sakusa’s shoulders to the wall to keep him upright. This does nothing for his head, which topples forward until his chin meets his chest.

“Don’t worry, Omi-kun.” Atsumu frees one hand to root around in his pockets. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

His phone. Where is his phone?

An image of his phone discarded on the locker room bench materializes in his head.

Fuck.

“Fuck!” he yells at the volume of panic.

The curse seems to stir Sakusa. He lifts his eyelids like they weigh more than his own body and releases a strangled sound.

“Omi-kun! Can you hear me?” Atsumu tilts his head up by the underside of his chin. “Where’s yer phone? We need to get ya to the hospital.”

“Nnn—” Sakusa tries in vain to shake his head.

“What? Are ya crazy?” Atsumu wants to shake him awake, shake some sense into him. Only the heat of Sakusa’s feverish neck against his fingers holds him still, solders him in place.

“’M fine.” Sakusa’s hands feel blindly for the floor while his spine straightens against the wall. “No hospital.”

“Fine? Fine?” Atsumu yells and Sakusa’s face scrunches up tight. “A moment ago, you were dyin’ on me!”

“I’m okay.” Sakusa’s voice is weak, but his eyes focus on Atsumu and, for the first time since he opened the door, he looks present. 

“I can’t—. No hospital,” he groans.

“Well, I’m not gonna be responsible for yer death,” Atsumu yowls. He wants to throw his hands up in exasperation, but they’re a little preoccupied holding Sakusa — touching Sakusa in a way he would never allow. Solid proof he is far from okay.

Sakusa’s tongue swipes across his cracked lips. “Water,” he pleads.

“Stay here,” Atsumu commands like Sakusa could suddenly get up and run away.

He takes his time removing himself, first the arm pressed against Sakusa’s sweat-damp shirt and then the hand holding up his head, only determining it safe when he doesn’t immediately fall over. In comparison, the dash to the kitchen feels like a race. He’s opening and closing unfamiliar cabinets from the sink to the fridge, each one emptier than the last and none containing a single glass. Finally, he finds his prize locked in the dishwasher, sparkling clean. Every other dish seems to live there, too, existing in a state of perpetual purity. Atsumu hastily fills the glass at the tap and scrambles back, only stopping to wipe up water he sloshed on the floor. He’d leave it if he didn’t value his life.

When he returns, Sakusa is sitting straighter and stronger than he left him. His dark eyes track Atsumu’s approach with noticeable lag.

“Drink.” He ignores Sakusa’s weak attempt to reach for the glass and does the job for him, holding it right up to his lips.

Greedily, Sakusa tries to gulp it down, but Atsumu keeps the flow steady.

“Yer gonna get sick if ya chug it,” he chides. “Take it slow, Omi-Omi.”

Sakusa’s pupils are pure black to his words as Atsumu pulls the half-empty glass back. A drop of water escapes down his chin, and Atsumu is mid-way through swiping it with his thumb when he registers Sakusa’s disturbed expression, the one that screams “Why are you touching me?”

Atsumu pulls his hand back with a relieved grin. “That’s more like ya.”

As if on cue, Sakusa sputters out a cough and a gag, just managing to swallow it back down. It takes one, two, three slow breaths before he’s able to speak.

“Leave,” he croaks. “You’ll get sick. Stomach flu.”

“Too late.” Atsumu holds the glass back up in offering. “I’ve already been exposed and if ya think I’m leavin’ ya here alone, Mr. No-hospital, yer crazy.”

There are no more protests as he helps Sakusa drain the rest of the glass.

“More,” he practically begs, and Atsumu never thought he would see Sakusa, of all people, look so damn pitiful. 

“Nuh-uh.” It takes everything in Atsumu to deny him in this state. “Ya gotta give it some time and let it settle.”

The glare Sakusa gives him is lukewarm and accompanied with a defeated slouch down the wall. Atsumu doesn’t like him like this; he’s used to the quick-and-cutting-glare Sakusa, the steel-stiff-spine Sakusa. The Sakusa in front of him has no strength to fight him — he can’t even handle the night breeze sneaking in through the wide-open door. It has him shivering uncontrollably.

“Yer fine, huh?” Atsumu snorts to bring some semblance of normalcy as he closes the front door. They’re alone now, no chance of outside help, and he hopes Sakusa knows what he’s asking for. Taking care of others isn’t exactly Atsumu’s strong suit.

First things first. “Let’s get ya off the floor.” 

Atsumu threads his arm under Sakusa’s, ignoring his whimper of protest, and pulls him up. He’s heavy —less so than when he collapsed— but they make it to the couch without incident. Atsumu didn’t train these quads for nothin’.

“Bed’s probably better, huh?” He peers down the dark hallway which seems to stretch on and on. 

At first look, Sakusa’s apartment appears much larger than his. The furniture is dark and sleek and the place spotless, not a single fluffy blanket or volleyball magazine or quirky cat calendar anywhere in view. A far cry from Atsumu’s own living situation. There are plenty of supplies, though: a shelf by the entrance with unopened boxes of face masks and disinfectant wipes, a row of coats on hooks for everything from the lightest summer breeze to a winter snowstorm, an organized bookshelf beside the couch with titles like _Dictionary of Medical Terms_ and _Stretching Scientifically_. Wildly exhilarating reads, he’s sure. All in all, the place has the full-yet-empty feel of a functional warehouse.

“This is fine.” Sakusa’s voice comes back gritty and groaning as he curls up, holding his stomach.

“Are— are ya gonna be sick?” Atsumu’s brain starts flashing red emergency lights. He’s mentally mapping the layout of the kitchen, trying to locate a bucket or a trash can or anything of the sort when Sakusa shakes his head, resigned. 

“It’s all out.”

“Oh.” Atsumu hovers, unsure. “Dehydration ain’t somethin’ to take lightly, ya know? Even if yer not gettin’ sick, yer not in the clear. A hospital could help you.”

“I’m not going.” Sakusa’s eyes fall closed, eyelashes thick and dark against his cheeks. “I can’t go. They touch... and it’s dirty... and I’m—”

He loses whatever he was trying to say.

Atsumu frowns. Curled up on the black leather couch, Sakusa looks so... small. The sight definitely doesn’t tug on his heart — not in the slightest. Still, with so much of his time spent chin up and head back watching Sakusa soar through the air, looking down on him like this feels plain wrong. 

Sakusa peels one eye open, then the other, catching him by the tail end of his stare. 

“You can go,” he mumbles.

“Do ya really want me to leave?” Atsumu has no intention of doing so.

Sakusa’s gaze slides to the floor with a heavy breath. “I’m disgusting.”

Atsumu laughs — he can’t help it. Only Sakusa’s hurt-scrunched brows bring it to a halt.

“Yer here sick as a dog, passin’ out at the door, and yer worried about bein’ disgusting?” Atsumu shakes his head. “I’m just glad yer not dead.”

A little line digs its way between Sakusa’s brows.

“You” —he curls up tighter, compacting his long limbs into a ball, and shivers— “hate me.”

“Don’t project yer feelin’s on me, Omi-Omi.” Atsumu huffs. “Ya got a blanket somewhere?”

Sakusa looks down the hall and Atsumu takes this as his invitation to venture into his bedroom. It’s nearly as bare of fun personals as the rest of the place, save one of those digital photo frames on the desk opposite the bed. Atsumu’s drawn to the light like a moth. There’s an image of Sakusa and Komori at some formal event, dressed in black suits and matching ties. The weird thing is Sakusa’s actually smiling — it’s a nice look, something Atsumu doesn’t see often. He’s definitely not smiling back at it until it disappears. 

The next one is of the entire MSBY team, the one they took for their website shortly after Sakusa joined. Atsumu snorts at how uncomfortable he looks, standing awkward and hunched off to the side, barely in frame. It was a battle to get him to take off the mask for that one. 

The screen changes again, this time to one of Hinata’s numerous group selfies. He stands foreground with Bokuto, both making peace signs with their tongues out. Behind them, Sakusa holds up two fingers of his own, his pained expression the opposite of peaceful. Even further in the background is Atsumu, entirely unaware he’s in frame. He’s too busy staring at Sakusa with a big, dumb smile on his face. 

The photo sticks out, too casual for the others. Atsumu stares at himself staring at Sakusa. Why is picture-him so damn happy? He can’t remember what he was thinking at the time, but he does recall he’s supposed to be looking for a blanket, not invading Sakusa’s privacy. 

Atsumu returns the frame to its place with unsteady hands, unsure when he picked it up to begin with, and turns to the bed. There’s evidence of a restless rest: pillows and blankets strewn about haphazardly. Atsumu can’t help but wonder how long Sakusa struggled here alone. The mental image of him twisted up in sheets, feverish and fighting, doesn’t sit right. Why didn’t he ask for help?

The light of the photo frame flashes again and again, warning him he’s been here too long. Atsumu untangles a blanket from the mess and turns on his heel. Dark eyes trail his return down the never-ending hall, no lag this time. Sakusa knows he was snooping. Sakusa’s gonna make him leave.

“Miya—,” Sakusa starts to say as Atsumu covers him with the blanket, careful now to avoid any skin-to-skin contact.

“More water?” The words form a question only meant to cut Sakusa off; Atsumu doesn’t wait for a response. He finds the discarded glass in the doorway and brings it to the sink. At the last minute, he thinks to grab a fresh one to fill. He knows well enough Sakusa never drinks from a used cup, even his own.

“Miya,” Sakusa tries again when he returns.

“Can ya sit up to drink?”

Atsumu has to force himself not to help as Sakusa struggles into a sitting position. It takes him nearly a minute, and the moment he’s up Atsumu is beside him, holding the glass to his mouth. He expects a complaint, a refusal, a rejection. He expects Sakusa to try to take the glass from him and do it himself. He certainly doesn’t expect Sakusa to wrap his hand around his, long fingers filling the spaces between. Atsumu definitely doesn’t flinch like he’s the one with the touch aversion.

“Miya.” Sakusa peers over the edge of the glass at him. “Why are you here?”

“Drink,” Atsumu prompts, ignoring how Sakusa’s eyes narrow.

His stare is making Atsumu feel feverish.

“Drink, goddamnit.” His words lack any sort of force. “Please,” he tacks on.

Finally, Sakusa listens, swallowing mouthful after mouthful until the glass is drained. When he pulls back, his hand stays, touch burning its way through Atsumu’s flesh and bone. It hurts and it soothes all at once in a way he can’t understand, and it makes him think — no, believe — he might like to be set on fire.

He bookmarks this for later; Sakusa is expecting for an answer.

“I care about ya, I guess.” Atsumu meets those questioning eyes. “Is that so weird?”

“Yes.”

Atsumu lets out a soft chuckle. “The real Kiyoomi’s back, I see.”

All at once, Atsumu is struck though. First, by the absence of Sakusa’s hand, fallen away, and second, by his own spoken-aloud thought.

There’s no time to take it back.

“I need to lie down.” Sakusa tips over, head landing neatly on Atsumu’s thigh. He pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, past his mouth, until it covers his nose like a makeshift mask.

“Get some rest, Omi-kun.” Atsumu’s voice definitely doesn’t waver. His shoulders certainly aren’t tense. “I’ll be right here if ya need me.”

Sakusa closes those dark eyes. “Thank you, Atsumu.”

—

Kiyoomi feels like death. His head is pounding — no, pulsating — and the pillow beneath his cheek is hot. So hot. He rolls to the other side and his face collides with another wall of heat. A soft wall, smelling vaguely of the MSBY locker room: sweat and cologne and sneaker spray. 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

This isn’t a wall at all and there isn’t a pillow beneath his head and the weight over his side pressing him down into the firm cushions of his couch isn’t anything except Miya Atsumu’s arm. 

Kiyoomi wishes he were dead.

Atsumu is asleep, the slow rise and fall of his chest providing Kiyoomi some small reprieve. He slips away from that heated stomach, off that soft lap, and out from under that heavy arm. Every part of him hurts, even more so as he struggles to make the journey down the hall to his bathroom, but none of it compares to his head. He needs to hydrate. He needs to cleanse. He needs to think. All in that order.

There’s no clean glass at the sink, usually laid out the night before in preparation, and no way is he walking all the way back to the kitchen in this state. Defeated, Kiyoomi sticks his head under the tap and blasts the water. He swallows gulp after messy gulp and tries not to think about the fact it’s been two full days since he scrubbed the sink.

_Take it slow, Omi-Omi._

The voice is in his head; Atsumu’s voice. The real Atsumu is still snoring on the couch where Kiyoomi left him. Still, he pulls back and waits for the wave of nausea he’s become accustomed to. When it doesn’t arrive, he’s relieved enough to offer himself a little smile in the mirror. The alleviation quickly dies as he’s hit with his bruised under eyes and the smattering of broken blood vessels across his cheeks. The final blow is his crown of matted curls, dangerously close to forming knots so formidable he’ll have to cut them out. Kiyoomi looks exactly how he feels: absolutely disgusting.

If the pressure in his head would go away, he might be able to feel some semblance of shame or embarrassment, but all that gets through is the desperation to become clean. He strips, climbs into the shower, and turns the heat all the way up. Here, on his hands and knees, everything hits him at once.

Kiyoomi is not a crier. Crying is messy, dirty, disgusting. It’s far preferable to internalize it, to analyze the feeling, and question every aspect of it until it’s passed. But here in this shower, Kiyoomi sobs. 

He sobs because he feels like death. He sobs because he looks like death. He sobs because Miya Atsumu was witness to it all and still held a glass of water to his lips over and over and over — Miya Atsumu touched him over and over and over. Miya Atsumu stayed.

Kiyoomi can’t understand it. Not the crying, not the heat of Atsumu’s thigh that won’t quite leave his face, not the way the pulsing of his head is fading, and certainly not how a knot in his chest takes its place, winning the competition to cause him the most pain. 

Miya Atsumu cares about him.

He can’t understand it.

“Omi-kun?” There’s a knock at the door. “Are ya okay in there?”

Kiyoomi chokes on his sob. He tries to pull it back in, but it fights him, digging its claws in his throat until he opens his mouth and lets it out. The hellish thing is stronger than him, stronger than everything. Even the sound of the door cracking open takes a backseat to its guttural noise.

“Sakusa?” Atsumu’s voice cuts through it with unnerving ease. “Are ya gettin’ sick again? It sounds—”

“Leave,” Kiyoomi sobs out. “Leave me alone.”

“Ah, sorry, I thought, um, I’ll—” 

The door is shut abruptly, and he doesn’t catch the rest of Atsumu’s sentence. 

He left.

And with that, there’s nothing more in Kiyoomi to cry. The water hits his face like rain. It takes away his sweat, his sick, his tears. It can have them. It can take every part of him. He could leave down that drain, little by little, piece by piece, until he’s no more. He would, but that would take too long and the water is already running cold.

When Kiyoomi finally exits the bathroom, Atsumu is truly gone. The apartment is quiet, couch empty save a neatly folded blanket. Kiyoomi stares at it for a long moment, then takes it with him back to his room. He finds his bed the way he left it last: a big mess, but he has no strength to sort it. Instead, Kiyoomi collapses into the fray, pulls the blanket over his head, and breathes it in.

The soft fabric smells paradoxical: of warmth and sweat, of icy antiseptic, of Atsumu, of himself. He breathes it in and out, in and out, in and out, unable to determine if it’s good or bad or somewhere in between. By the time Kiyoomi’s mind slips to black, he’s only decided one thing: he never wants to let it go. 

Of course, it’s too late for that. 

Atsumu already left.

—

Atsumu returns, showered and clean courtesy of a trip to his own apartment, bag heavy with rice porridge and electrolyte drinks courtesy of a stop at the store. He knocks a few times, shifting the bag back and forth between his hands, before trying the door. Still unlocked.

Atsumu lets himself in and calls out. No response. Sakusa better not have died while he was gone. It’s not like he wanted to leave, but Sakusa made it pretty clear he preferred to get sick in private. Atsumu can’t fault him — having an audience to your misery is rough, but, in his opinion, it’s no worse than being alone with it, crying for help only to be met with unsympathetic silence. That only leads to one of two paths: crying louder, demanding attention with every last ounce of existence, or growing quiet and cold. It’s clear what Sakusa would choose – has chosen. Well, Atsumu isn’t going to let him. Not anymore. 

He abandons the bag on the counter and pads down the hall. The bathroom door is open, and he peers inside to find it perfectly clean, save for a pile of Sakusa’s clothes next to the tub. There’s no evidence of someone hacking up their insides, but, knowing Sakusa, he probably even gets sick in a clean way. Atsumu can’t relate. He moves on to the bedroom.

At first glance, Sakusa looks like he’s dead. He’s passed out face-first in bed, tangled sheets at his feet and the blanket from earlier barely hanging on to his left leg. The way he’s using his arm in place of a pillow is sure to give him a pain in his neck, and the light from the digital frame illuminates a sheen of sweat on his pale, muscled back all the way down to the perfect curve of his—.

Huh.

Sakusa is butt naked.

It’s no big deal, really. Atsumu already has a complete mental picture of Sakusa’s body, a puzzle pieced together from flashes of him between outside clothes and gym clothes, practice and shower, shower and outside clothes, repeated over and over nearly every day of the week. Normal societal reservations simply don’t apply when sharing a locker room. It’s definitely not like Atsumu means to catalogue Sakusa down to the centimeter.

He also definitely doesn’t mean to keep staring now, ogling him while he sleeps like some terribly depraved human being. Maybe ‘Samu’s right about him being the evil twin.

The noise Sakusa makes as he stirs, something akin to a whimper, is more than enough to break Atsumu’s trance. He gets the hell out of there, back to the kitchen, back to the entryway. His body takes over for his brain and his arm opens and closes the door with a slam, mouth yelling a greeting at full volume. 

Convincing. Definitely convincing.

He’s in the kitchen, porridge in the pot, when Sakusa decides to show his face. He’s dressed now, all clean and fresh in lounge pants and a long sleeve shirt, and he’s staring at Atsumu like he’s butt naked.

“Hope yer hungry.” Atsumu hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels. “I got ya some of those drinks ya like too, the lime ones. They’re in the fridge.”

Sakusa blinks slowly as if he no longer understands Japanese.

“I wiped them off before I put ‘em in there,” he adds.

“You left,” Sakusa says, face tight. “I told you to leave.”

“I said I was comin’ back, didn’t I?” Atsumu stirs the porridge. “Bet ya didn’t hear me over all yer yackin’.”

“Yackin’?” The word is funny from Sakusa’s mouth.

“Gettin’ sick, throwin’ up, tossin’ yer cookies,” Atsumu provides alternatives.

Sakusa doesn’t wrinkle his nose or even cringe at Atsumu’s vulgar colloquialisms. He stares at the floor and swallows.

Weird.

For a split second, Atsumu thinks he should fess up. But that’s not it. He’s well acquainted with pissed-off-brows Sakusa, uncomfortably-rockin-on-his-heels Sakusa, nose-wrinkled-in-disgust Sakusa; all the Sakusas who glare at him when he definitely doesn’t let his gaze linger a half second too long in the locker room. This is one he’s never seen before. Atsumu dubs him: lookin-like-he-might-cry Sakusa. He must still be sick.

“You should take a seat,” Atsumu suggests. “I’ll bring it to ya.”

Sakusa just stands there, watching as Atsumu ladles the porridge into two bowls. His eyes burn hot and nice into the back of Atsumu’s neck, but the moment he turns around, they dart to the floor. Sakusa’s balance wavers, and Atsumu tenses, ready to catch him. It’s not necessary; Sakusa rights himself with a near imperceptible shake of the head and Atsumu’s definitely not disappointed.

“Yer so damn stubborn.” He huffs as he passes by, bowls in hand. “I’ll be on the couch, eatin’ this delicious meal if ya decide to join me.”

To his relief, Sakusa trails behind him. He takes the bowl from Atsumu without comment and sits on the far edge of the couch, body angled away. They eat in silence, Atsumu peeking over every now and then to check if Sakusa is actually eating and not eating too fast and not getting sick. His hand shakes some, but he makes slow and steady progress.

“Are ya feelin’ any better?” Atsumu asks when he‘s halfway.

“A little.” Sakusa’s voice is small, but clear. “Aren’t you going to miss practice?”

“I already let ‘em know.” Atsumu shrugs. “Seein’ as I’ve been exposed to yer sickness ‘n all, they thought it was better I don’t show up.”

He definitely didn’t tell them he was feeling funny after last night. But if he had, he wouldn’t be lying.

Sakusa scrapes his porridge back and forth with his spoon, pushing it to one side and watching it ooze back before pushing it to the other.

“They said to tell ya to feel better,” Atsumu adds. “And to not come back until yer up to it.”

Sakusa abandons the bowl on the coffee table with a definitive clang.

“Stop.” He’s glaring like Atsumu kicked a puppy.

“Stop what, Omi-kun?”

“Stop this. Whatever this is.” He throws his hands up and his fingers tremble in the air. “I don’t need you to take care of me. I don’t want you to.”

“What the hell’s wrong with ya?” Atsumu’s nostrils flare before he can stop them. “Last night ya were thankin’ me and sleepin’ in my lap and—”

“Is that why?” Sakusa cuts him off. “You want gratitude? Does it make you feel good about yourself to help your poor, pitiful teammate?”

Atsumu doesn’t feel good at all. He wants to wring the disdain right out of Sakusa’s voice.

“If you weren’t so sick, I’d kick yer ass,” he growls. “You needed help and ya sure weren’t gonna help yerself. What kinda person gets to the point of passin’ out and still won’t go to the damn hospital? Are ya that careless?”

Atsumu isn’t — he cares maybe a bit too much.

“Do ya know how scared I was?” His frustration leaves him by way of heavy exhale.

Sakusa’s fight does the same and he slumps into the couch like he wants it to swallow him whole. “It shouldn’t matter to you.”

“It does matter.” Atsumu can’t lie about that. “You matter to me whether ya like it or not, so stop tellin’ me to stop, ya prickly asshole.”

Sakusa’s lip twitches. He shoves his face into his shoulder, turning away, but it’s too late — Atsumu saw that smile. He likes that smile. He kinda wants to keep it all for himself.

“Next time yer sick, call me, okay?” Atsumu shifts closer with a shit-eating grin of his own. “I’m not scared of yer germs, Omi-Omi.”

Their thighs are nearly touching and Atsumu fights the urge to thread his fingers into Sakusa’s curls, to tug him close, to taste the rice porridge on his lips and—.

Whoah.

Sakusa’s turned to look at him and his eyes are all dark and Atsumu definitely doesn’t think about kissing him. He’s definitely not calling out for it mentally, screaming and begging, desperation written on his face so plain to see.

“Prove it.” Sakusa pushes him that extra step with flames in his voice and color in his cheeks.

Atsumu has no control of what happens next — he’s pulling Sakusa in, he’s sliding his hands up that beautiful, muscular plane of his back, he’s burying his face deep in those ridiculously soft curls and holding him close, closer than he’s ever been, as close as Atsumu’s definitely always wanted to be. 

He was right. Nothing beats being on fire.

“Is this proof enough?” he whispers into the heat of Sakusa’s ear. 

Long fingers twist Atsumu’s shirt, grip tightening as Sakusa finds his words. “I thought you were going to kiss me.”

“Take it slow, Omi-Omi.” Atsumu presses a small kiss to his temple and pulls back. “You can have more if ya finish yer porridge.”

Sakusa makes a face which can only be described as a pout, and Atsumu definitely does want to kiss him again. He wants to kiss him when he’s sick and kiss him when he’s smiling and kiss him when he’s making a half-assed peace sign while Hinata snaps a group selfie. He definitely wants to kiss Sakusa Kiyoomi every second of every day for the rest of his got dang life, whether Sakusa cries out for it or pleads in silence with those dark and desperate eyes.

For now, Atsumu smiles and hands Sakusa his porridge bowl. 

“Eat up,” he says. “Yer gonna need the energy.”


End file.
